Being More Than Human: Prequel
by Brave Wolf Heart
Summary: Ever wondered what Mitchell, Annie, and George were like before they met each other? Well join us for a look at their childhoods, previous lives, transformations, and first thoughts on what they are. Rated T for violence and suggestive elements.
1. A Daughter's Beginning

**A/N: Hello everyone! This is my first fic/post so I'm excited! This is where it all starts in my re-write of Being Human. My goal is to keep as close to the original characters as possible while leaving out the swearing, and changing the theology of the characters. Here's were YOU come in! If you feel that someone's done something way out of their personality, let me know what it was, and how I could do better. I crave constructive criticism! And not just for that, but for my writing in general. So if you have a suggestion, critique, comment, or electronic high-five, give it to me! And one last thing, ENJOY THE FIC!**

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"Hello Dad!" said the happy 12-year-old as she bounded through the front door, almost forgetting to wipe her shoes on the new doormat. Her curls bouncing with every energetic step she took.

"Well, well. You're sure in fine spirits lass. Did something happen?" Max, her father, asked as she hummed a tune and ran to her room, not stopping to respond. He heard the scrape of books being tossed on her desk and the thud of her pastel backpack landing on the floor.

 _What could be exciting her so?_ he perplexed. _What day is it?_ He meandered over to the wall calendar in the living room and sat on the sofa beside it. Feeling relief from being on his feet, he leisurely sighed and turned to search the calendar for his answer.

It's picture was that of a runway model, but he couldn't see her dress. Well, her real dress. It had been covered up by the outfit his daughter had drawn out and glued on it. He smiled to himself as he ran his fingers across the paper representing a deep brown dress, gold gloves that came past her elbows, black tights, a teal fashion scarf tied up in a bow, and a pearl necklace with a pink crystal flower in the middle, matching her loose earrings.

He remembered when she'd drawn that at the beginning of the month; he'd stuck his head into her room to wake her up for her first day of sixth grade, but she was already up. She was sitting in her red padded chair at her oak desk, drawing, and swinging her feet in glee. He asked her what she was drawing and she'd said she was drawing an outfit for a fashion model.

Not a stretch at all. Ever since she was six, she had told her mom, Carmen, and he that she wanted to design fashion; or dress people up, as she called it back then.

The funny thing was, Max didn't realize that she had meant the model from the family calendar. At least not until her little sister, Amandla, (who was too young for school) had started drawing on the calendar, thinking she was acting like her big sister. He'd punished her, asking her why she'd drawn on something that wasn't hers. His youngest only blabbered that somebody else had too. He took a second look at the calendar to see his middle child's cutouts.

He would have told her not to do it and to take it down, but he wouldn't bother now; it was already done. Though his step-son, Robin, had complained about it: only to be slapped by the designer herself.

Max shook his head from up the memory and read the calendar: May, 1997, Thursday the first, Friday the second. He then skipped down to today, the 23rd, to find it was a Friday. _Is that why she's excited? The weekend being here?_ he pondered as he waited for her return.

Or, maybe she found a boy she likes. She had been a little boy crazy ever since she realized that it was appropriate and normal. Her current mother figure, step-mum Amy, had told her all boys could be as mean as they were pretty and not to give herself to a... Well, she didn't use a nice word.

Max believed swearing showed poor language skills, even in-superiority. But that seemed to be the last thing his wife believed. Some days you'd think her a sailor the way she'd run her mouth.

To say the least, his middle child had given her a disturbed look, and then forgot to care. She thought herself too smart for that to happen anyway.

She was a tough young lady. This was her second step-mother after all, and that wasn't easy on her. She had been very brave and strong, for that's who she was. But never doubt her sarcastic and spontaneous nature, in any mood. She'll be the first to surprise you with an earful of sass or by reading your private journal aloud.

But that's, as she says, when she trying to get something done. Today she was happy, for some reason.

"I'm waiting for you to tell me what excited you today," he called out with some impatience.

"Sorry Father! I didn't mean to keep you waiting." She ran into the living room and stood before her dad. She was dressed in a black caprees, a purple tank top, and a black shawl with a gold design. She inhaled and smiled, probably smelling the lilac candles Amy had lit an hour earlier.

"I'm excited because today was collage fair day. I got to meet a manager from a fashion school and he said I had potential and to contact him when I'm ready to go to college!" She was beaming with excitement. She looked as if she'd just as soon jump around and scream for joy. Or do a one of her random dances which she performs whenever she feels the urge.

 _That's great. She'll have a sound future. I just hope she keeps it that way._

"Excellent. That's good for you to be thinking ahead. Have you started to think about the money you'll need for schooling? You're going to pay for it just as much as I am."

Max knew his brunette had never been good at everything. He was very respectable and handled most of what he needed by himself. She was dependent on others for what she needs, and that could be a good sized burden. He wanted to let her know that they alone weren't paying for her college.

She gave him a look of consternation as her body slightly hunched over. As if he had rained on her parade. Why wasn't she grateful that he let on to them helping her pay? Why would she want "them" to pay for it? He became quiet. Then her remembered.

When she was younger, her mum had always supported her, and made sure she felt secure. Encouraged her dreams, taught her how to sew, talked to her when she was down. Carmen felt as if it she was responsible for the happiness of their daughter. One day, Max had brought it up to Carmen alone. She had retorted that she wasn't babying her at all, she was bringing her child comfort and love.

Speaking of which, whenever her daughter was stressed, Carmen would make a cup of tea for her. In fact, it became a mother-daughter activity that they shared with pleasured faces and warm bellies. When her mum had felt her ready, she taught her how to make tea so they could do more then drink it together. After her ray of sunshine learned how to make it, she made it for her mother when she was down, or fallen ill.

Especially when she fell ill. When her mum became bedridden, everyday (occasionally multiple times a day) she would make tea for the two of them. They would sit and talk for hours. The only one to spend much time with her during those days was her little tea maker. They became very close.

The funny thing was no one knew that month would be the last one shared with their mum and wife. It wasn't until the curly haired brunette knocked on the guest room door one overcast morning to deliver her tea and didn't get the usual response. She knocked again, trying not to flip her tray of two cups of hot tea and a fresh batch of scones. The house was silent. She had opened the door to mother lying in bed. Thinking she was asleep, she set her load down on the side table and tried to wake her. When she couldn't wake her mum, the nine-year-old had started to cry in nonplussed disbelief and shock. She screamed for her father who came running straight from his bed to his wife's side.

Carmen had fallen into a coma. Max didn't tell his children any more then that. He'd had her moved to the hospital where she laid until the very last day the hospital would keep her.

That was the day she woke. Though she'd woken so sick that Max thought she would never recover. He put her in a nursing home and left her there.

He didn't know what happened to her after that. Max didn't want to know. Carmen could no longer fulfill her duty to him as his wife, so he gave the home enough money for her to live off of, and told them not to contact him about her again. He privately divorced her within the week and hadn't seen her since.

It took his children a while to smile again. And everyday, their sweet lass would make tea for the whole family. It seemed to make her feel as if her mother was still with her; that brought her some peace in their time of heartache. Even now, she still made tea everyday.

"Dad? Is everything alright?" She had sat down beside him on the couch and was searching his face for answers. She was so close that he could smell her soft perfume.

Max regained his attention: "Yes, it is. I'm fine." _I just let my thoughts take me too far_ , he muttered in his mind.

"Should I go make some tea?" It appeared she didn't believe him. _Oh well for her._

"No, I just wanted to let you know that getting a head start on college is good; but, getting a job and saving money is better. Think about getting a job. Now, go do your homework. You should be getting all A's if you want to get into any college." He stood up and walked out of the room, leaving her forlorn figure alone on the couch.

"Yes, Father." He heard her say as the couch squeaked from the movement of her rising. He saw her walk past his door with a bland face.

He normally didn't have the sensitive heart his first wife did, but in that moment, he felt as if his sweet daughter had been a bit neglected lately. It seemed that she almost needed someone to be with. Someone to listen and be happy for her.

 _I am happy for her_ , Max corrected. _I just need her to be smart, that's all. When she's a grown women with a good head she can thank me for it. She shouldn't to be needy._

But was that what was bothering him? He didn't know. He did want to help her, just not do it for her. Why can't she see that?

"Papa! Papa! Come see!" called Amandla with an mirthful voice.

"No, Amandla! Shh! He can't come because..." his tea maker's voice lowered below audibility, as if she knew his intention was to listen.

He trotted down the hall and up the red wood stairs as they spiraled. He had always admired their elegance and grace. Once he reached the top, he took a left and felt warm. Had they turned the heat on? Continuing towards the playroom, as the children called it, he took off his gloves, letting his hands hit the warmth of the house without the extra heat.

Max sighed as the thought crossed his mind that it could've been because he's getting older. He really wasn't too old, though coming upstairs might have made him warm.

He heard the scuffling of quick feet across the carpet and low words being spat at Amandla. Getting more curious by the second, he pussyfooted to the white painted door with the golden nob and stopped outside it. He held his ear to the door. Little voices started to reach him.

"I don't understand. Why, he's been more and more secluded and is trying to make us the same way! He makes me want to-" the low but course masculine voice was cut off by the snap of a sharp feminine one.

"Hush! He could be right outside!"

"Is that my fault?" Amandla inquired loud and clear.

"Hush!" that same sharp voice repeated. "And yes. Yes, it is your fault!"

"Why?"

His oldest daughter, Lenora, broke in: "Honestly, if we're going to have these meetings we ought to gag Amandla and shove her in the closet."

The kids all chuckled except for Amandla, who shouted, "That is not funny! I will tell!"

"Hush!" was now echoed by formerly giggling children.

He assumed the only boy scooped the three-year-old up and slapped a hand over her struggling lips. "Amy," he sweet talked his little sister with her nickname. "You won't have to tell if we don't gag you, and we won't gag you if you keep quiet. By staying quiet, you can save yourself the trouble, the hassle, even the problem itself. You'd be like a genius, stopping it before it happens."

There was silence, and possibly a confused child. "What does that mean?"

"It means you would be very, very smart to play the quiet game in the closet," Robin explained.

"By my self?!" her voice was raising a against the silly idea.

Lenora covered: "No, no. Of course not. You're playing against the closet."

"Really?"

"Yep. Whoever makes the first noise, loses. You don't want to lose, do you?" Max could just see Lenora hamming up her baby sister like that; and Amandla believing it.

"No!" then he heard the closet door swing shut and giggles all around.

"Oh, I love you Lea! I love you too Robin." he heard his fashionable daughter's admiration and pleasure.

"Yeah, thanks," Robin clearly didn't believe it.

"No. Really, I do," she earnestly spoke.

"I think that's why she really brought us up here," Lenora quietly spoke. "To be together. I know how much this means to you," she paused; no doubt to give her little sister a caring smile.

The brunette confided with a sigh: "Partly. Though I do want to talk about Dad. I just want him to care. To, love us and want us! He makes us seem, like we're in the way of things sometimes. And you're all I really have; you're great friends and siblings, but I want a parent too," the voice he knew so well held such a woeful tone that the seemingly stoic man physically bent forward in shock.

Before he could think of what to do, his head touched the shut door, making a low 'bump' as it hit the doorframe.

Three small gasps sounded from the other side and he sighed, lifting his head off the wooden door and straightening his back. It wasn't time for him to show his feelings. He just needed to handle it.

But how? What was he going to do about it? Walk in and tell them that he was sorry for how he was teaching them to grow up? Sorry for not seeming like a loving parent? No. That would show weakness. It would mean that he was wrong: he wasn't. They just had the wrong point of view. That's it. That's all it is. So what now? They knew he was there. He better show himself or they'll think him a coward.

He opened the door to see his children sitting in a circle with looks of shock and worry written on their faces. Were they afraid of him?

Before they could say anything, he spoke, "I heard you children talking. And I never thought I'd hear it said that I'm not a parent! What does that make me?! A rich Bon Bon in a suit? A business man with an attachment disorder? Or maybe clueless.

"But a parent I am and a father I am. Your father at that. Don't talk about me in such ways that aren't true! I provide and care for you; isn't that what a parent does?" he paused from his long-winded rant to take in what was around him.

Amandla stuck her head out of the closet; her eyes catching on the tall, broad, and heated figure who stood erect in the room. "Daddy? Are we in trouble?"

Before he could respond, Anna Sawyer's solid voice spoke up: "We meant no disrespect, sir. We were only trying to have a sibling conversation. We need each other; I need them. And we were talking about-"

"Stop sounding like your mother," he said firmly. Sorrow passed over his face, but only for a second; it quickly resumed it's normally collected composure.

"Fine. Just fine. But do not say anything like that again."

Without hesitation, all four of his children said 'yes sir'. He nodded and walked out of the room and closed the door behind him, albeit he didn't leave.

Staying behind the door (though not as close this time), he heard them sigh in relief and start again.

"I'm glad that went like it did," Robin stated.

"Me too. We could have been cooked," Lenora agreed.

There was a pause. "Is it better now?" Amandla timidly asked.

"Yes, it is. And don't let him get you down. As long as we're together, we'll be okay, happy even. In fact, I think I'll go make some tea, because today's a good day. Even if Dad's steamed, I have to pay my way to college, Robin's girlfriend broke up with him, Lenora failed her English paper, and so on, it's not so bad. It's as good as any day can get. Today we're alive and well, with great things a ahead of us," his bold Anna Clare Sawyer affirmed to her younger sister.

"Annie?" The voice was soft and concerned.

Anna didn't loose her positive spirit, "Lenora?"

"Do you really believe that? And that there are great things ahead of us?"

"Yeah, I do. Just look outside: there's a nice breeze, the birds are singing, and we have people who are glad to know us. To me, we have everything."

He silently cracked the door open and peered in to see Lenora hugging her sister.

Max closed the door and let a small smile dance on his lips. _At least she'll never be lonely. Annie will always find someone and something to be happy about._

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 **A/N: That was Annie's first of her three prequels. Up next is one of the boys' childhoods.**

 **Thank so much for reading it! Please review! I hope you enjoyed it. And even if you didn't, have a fantastic life anyway! God bless you.**

 **I love throwing little references or nods into my writings, so see if you can spot them. I've listed this chapter's nods down below.**

 **Trivia: Annie's TV actress' name is Lenora and her sister's name is Amandla; hints, were I got Annie's sisters' names from. ;)**


	2. An Irish Boy's Beginning

**A/N: Hi again! I'm a day late posting... Sorry! I hope you enjoy this chapter, it was fun to write, as they all are.**

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"Mam, can I go outside and play?"

Sarah's smile beamed down on her precious little boy. She had alway held high hopes for him, with his helpful, loving spirit and kind, generous heart. What more could a mam ask for but a beautiful hazel eyed boy with black curls that danced with every step he took? He always had a way of lifting her spirits when her heart hit the floor or her burdens became overwhelming. He'd crawl onto her lap and embrace her in his reassuring grasp until she would stop crying; even if that meant cuddling her for an hour.

Her boy took two steps toward his mum and placed a contagious grin on his lips. _So young_ , she thought in sentimental regret and awe. _My little boy is growing up too fast. It seems yesterday he was just learning to walk. Now, July has rolled back around with all it's fondest memories. If only he'd just stay the same age forever._

Gentle tugs at Sarah's sleeve distracted her from her thoughts and brought her back to the present moment where her boy stood by her side. "Please, Mum. I really want to, and it's my birthday," he begged as he tilted his head down slightly, furrowed his brows and lifted them as high as he could, then looked up. His pleading stare was almost too much for her. The red glow from the fire place didn't help as it radiated on his features, making him seem even cuter.

After a moment, he stepped back, saddened because she didn't give in. A sigh escaped her lips, but looking down brought back the warmth he gave her heart. "I know it is, Love. I just want to keep you safe, is all," she leaned over and gingerly kissed his forehead. He glanced at one of the kitchen walls in their Georgian house, disappointed. Then, as he met her eyes again, she saw one last flash of determination. She held her gaze at eye level with her only son as he spoke, "But Mam, I'm eight years old now. I'm a big boy and I can take care of myself."

He said it with such innocence and ignorance that Sarah's heart both softened and harden to the idea of her boy out in the world by himself. After all, he is just a kid on a island of adults. Anything could happen to anyone at anytime. _But that's normal, I suppose. I can't think of one truly safe place on this earth, Dublin is no exception_ , she smiled empathically. "I know baby, but there are mean people in this world, who do bad things. Sometimes, even I can't stop them."

At that he seemed taken back, his brow furrowed in surprise and incredulity. "Can Daddy stop them?" His young spirit yearned for a yes, but she didn't give him one. "No, neither can Dad." Her smile was comforting while his slipped from his face.

"Then who's gonna stop the bad guys?" Those words made Sarah chuckle, though her only child gave her a frustrated and confused look for it. _He's so blunt. I suppose that's children for you, but it's so charming. He's always been charming in the way he walks, holds himself, smiles, and the way he talks. Oh, I pray he never loses it._

Answering his question, she stated, "God can, if it's in His will to. You know that though. And do you remember what else your Dad and I taught you?" He broke from his gaze and stared at the floor, where he often stares when thinking hard. He bounced his toes on the wooden boards under him making a soft, _tap, tap, tap_.

"Um," he muttered. "That, um, I should hide God's Word in my heart, so I won't sin against Him...?" Sarah could see how much he wanted to please her, but he couldn't keep his should-be statement from sounding like a question. _Am I right? Tell me I'm right_ , he seemed to ask. Well...

"Yes, that's one of the things we taught you," her smile never faltering. She was proud that her little one had remembered that. "And it's very important to know, and take to heart. Promise me you will, darling." In the long haul, all she wanted was to raise her boy to know, love, and serve God. Knowing that he was doing such, would let her live a content life when she became an old woman.

"I will Mum! I promise." His ernest visage didn't lie, but Sarah saw he couldn't hold his excitement much longer. She took a few seconds to cherish her joy, then locked it away in a sacred room in her heart and asked him one more thing.

"Do you remember the other verse? About doing all things?" She, of course, hoped he did.

"Yes Mum! I can do all things through Jesus Christ who strengthens me." He smiled broadly. "I'll remember that too," he stated affirmatively with a nod of his head. Her own smile couldn't be bigger. Her special room had another, more precious, time to hold on to.

The late evening sun shone through the deep kitchen window. It's last bold yellows inviting the evening shades of orange, pink, and red. "Okay, Love, but be home before dark. Your Dad will come back from work within the hour," she relented and walked over to preheat the stove for dinner.

With that, her young one jumped in the air from excitement and dashed for the front door in the entry hall one room over. "Be safe!" she called after her speedy son in concern. "I will Mam! I'll see you soon," she heard the scuffling of him pulling on his boots and thud of the door opening and shutting.

She forced a smile onto her face. He would have to grow up sometime: become a man, fall in love, start a family, father a child, grow old and wise, and finally die. Her soul dropped to the floor as the word die had made it's first conscious connection with her only son. She took a deep shaky breath, trying to fill her lungs and relax her mind. _Everyone dies_ , she thought. _And that's not the end. My boy's heart is with The Lord. He'll be welcomed into heaven with open arms. He'll spend the rest of his days with the Prince of Peace. Why am I sad?_

She sighed at her mixed feelings as she turned to walk down into the basement where their ice box was kept. She sauntered through the hallway and down the old, worn stairs that creaked in a pleasant way when she stepped on them, deep in thought. She closed her eyes once she reached the bottom, letting the cool air come over her body with contentment. It always surprised her how much the temperature could drop by being ten feet farther in the earth. Strolling across the small room and grasping the cool wooden handle of the ice box made her stop.

Her concerns weren't about her young man after all, when she thought of them. It was that she wasn't willing to let him go. To see him walk away from her. To no longer feel his presence by her side each day. She'd have her husband, no doubt, but there was nothing like the light that your child brings into your life.

She was being selfish. Her grip on the handle tightened and she snorted in disgust at herself. _Oh well, I'm only human. What more can I expect from myself naturally?_ Then a voice as old as it was young, as friendly as it was fatherly, as loving as it was justifying, and oh, so familiar caught her wondering away. _That's why I am here._

She sheepishly grinned. That's right. How could she have forgotten. And to try and justify herself! She snorted once more, but this time with a new-found purpose. She open the door, took what she needed from the ice box, returned up the stairs to the kitchen, and started cutting up some vegetables.

"I thought you'd gone out." The deep and comforting voice made her jump and almost cut herself. Then she huffed and continued her cutting without turning around to the man sitting at the table behind her. "You almost made me cut myself, you know. A nice 'good evening, dear' or simply a 'hello' would do. Don't scare me like that, Aidan."

"Sorry." She didn't need to see him to tell he shrugged it off. With the scoot of a chair, he got up and moved to sit beside the fireplace. The only reason they had a fire going was for the unusual summer chill, 10 degrees Celsius.

Frustrated, Sarah let out her breath, dropped her shoulders and stared at the celling. "Aidan," she moaned and turned around to face him. His eyes dance with amusement as the pink sun shone on his features.

"What?" he asked as innocently as he dared. Obvious delight in her startle tainting his new smile, giving way to her's. "Why are you so childish?" she playfully inquired.

"It keeps my heart that much happier," he paused and glanced at her charmed and pleasured expression, his smile turning mischievous. "But I'll do as my Lord bids me. Oh, doesn't the bible say, 'I perceived that there is nothing better for them than to be joyful'?"

"Yes," Sarah spoke and raised a brow. "But you left out the latter part, 'and to do good as long as they live.' You weren't doing good. You gave me a start."

"I was half right," he stated with confidence as he turned his head to watch the warm flames flicker around the stone bricks of the fireplace.

Lighthearted, she gasped. "Is that being lukewarm?!" she feigned astonishment as he gave her a sidelong look and cocked his head at her. "Jesus said he hated the lukewarm and would spit them out," she spoke matter-a-factly.

Now it was her turn to face away and smile. She put the colorful vegetables in the heating soup on the stove.

"Fine. You win," he passively sighed.

Changing the subject, Aidan smiled, "It's the last 29th of July in 1901! We should be excited!"

Sarah cocked an eyebrow at her husband's silly statement, wondering if he intended to add the real reason why it was special.

Just then, he nonchalantly added, "Oh, and our boy's birthday." She rolled her eyes, but tried not to show amusement that would only encourage him.

Aidan watched her cook for a moment, then asked, "Do you have a cake for him? Oh, where is he? In his room?" He looked around for any sign of him, "His boots are missing. Has he gone out?"

"Yes," she solemnly breathed. "He'll be alright, Aidan. You know he will." She tried to preoccupy herself with repetitively stirring the soup. She didn't want to think about it. He'd never been out by himself before.

"When will he be back?" Aidan looked to the window, most likely wondering where his son was.

"Oh, no longer than twenty minutes. I told him to be back before dark." She shook some spices into the soup and set them on the counter as another wave of desperation overtook her.

"Why did I ever let him go?" she whined with concern and slapped her hands down on the cutting board. Her emotions were getting the better of her.

"Maybe because he loves people, even if they don't like him," Aidan offered and came to stand beside her. "The kids think he's a dolt, yet he goes right back and tries to be mates." He put a hand on her shoulder to give her confidence, which failed. He'd said too much, and the wrong thing at that.

"What!?" her voice fraught with astonishment. "How do you know that?"

Aidan looked down at Sarah, as if debating to tell her. "I took him out not too long ago and said I had to do business in one of the nearby stores. He told me he'd rather go play with the kids in the corner, as I suspected, so I told him he could and I'd be back," he cringed at the look on her face.

"If I've never told you not to leave him, I've told you thousand times!" she burst out. "Has he been out alone before?!" panic etched every bit of her voice.

"Well, yes," he quickly stated and moved on. "But this time I stayed where I could see him, but he couldn't see me. I watch as he approached the group and they ignored him. He tried to talk to them, only to have the ball kicked in his face." He watched the sorrow grow like a weed in his wife's eyes and continued with a heavy heart. "He turned his other cheek and waited. When they asked him what he was doing, and he told them Jesus said to turn the other cheek if someone slaps you or throws a ball at you," unable to lock his eyes in hers, he dropped them to the floor.

"They laughed and called him names. They said he was a dolt to take it like that. 'All good boys better run back to the priest.' They told him to run, and that he was weird and unlike them. He said he just wanted to hang out and be mates but they shut him off and started playing ball again. He walked over to the curb, sat down, and watched. They continued to hit him with the ball on purpose and call it an accident."

I came for him shortly after, not wanting to interfere, and took him home. I asked him how it went to see what he'd say, only to get a, 'Why am I different?'. I told him he was special because he had God in his heart," he sighed. "That was only one of their interactions." His mam latched onto her spouse and cried into his shoulder. Her sobs shook their bodies as he held his arms around her and gently whispered solace in her ear.

After a while, she broke free and sat down in one of four wooden chairs at the table with barely a sound. He took a seat across from her as she painfully muttered, "What did we do wrong? Why don't normal kids like him? Is it our fault? Are we-"

"No, it's not," he interrupted her pity rant with a firm tone, staring her down even though she wasn't looking. "We're not responsible for how others act. You _know_ that, Sarah. They probably don't like him because he's a good lad, a Christian lad. They don't understand different. In fact, most of the world doesn't. They judge him off of the world and do so rashly. That's the problem, not him, not us."

She looked up so say something, but saw her boy strolling down the street from the window. "Aidan, he's coming!" she couldn't hide the urgency plaguing her as she stood up and wiped her tear-stained face on her handkerchief.

"The cake is in the breadbox. Can you set it on the table and light the candles? I need to get his present from our room." Without hesitating for a response, she left to get his gift.

When she returned to the kitchen, Aidan and his son had sat down at the table, waiting for her so they could start. Her boy's smile greatly lightened her mood as she laid his present wrapped in green and laced in yellow on the far end of the table.

"Can we sing now Mam? Please." He sat up straight in his chair and shifted his gaze from his mam to his dad, looking for a response out of either.

Sarah nodded at her other half and he nodded back. "Alright. We're singing it in Irish for you, lad. Like we should," Aidan said as he smiled at his loving wife. They both hadn't perceived how much they'd been speaking English lately and figured they'd start changing that.

"Okay!" The birthday boy took the seat nearest to his cake, which was complete with eight candles, and watched them glow.

His mam sang, and his dad sang the best he could,

"Lá Breithe Shona dhuit,

Lá Breithe Shona dhuit,

Lá Breithe Shona. a John Mitchell,

Lá Breithe Shona dhuit!"

With that, John closed his eyes, mouthed something, then inhaled as deeply as possible and blew out all of his candles. His visage shown with glee at his accomplishment.

His dad asked in playful suspicion, "Did you make a wish?"

"Yes..." John lifted his eyes from his cake to meet brown ones. "Do you want to to know what I wished for?" He dragged out his words as if to attract them to inquire.

"Yes. What did you wish for, Love?" Sarah scooped him up in her arms then passed him to Aidan, as he was getting too big for her to hold for long. It triggered her earlier thoughts and yearnings. _Oh, John, just try to never grow up._

"I wished always to be happy! Like I am right now." He beamed brighter then the sun, once again filling her scared room with a treasure to last forever.

Her heart cried out to The Lord, _Oh, God, keep John on Your path, never to stray. Protect him from harm and aid him in his struggles. Watch over him, and please, grant him his one true wish. Please let him find and keep happiness._

* * *

 **Trivia: Aidan is the actor who plays John Mitchell and Sarah is his girlfriend. See what I did there? ;)**

 **So, sometimes I'll have a song in my head while writing a chapter. It may be because I think I fits the chapter well or just because I like and it influenced the story slightly. So if either of those happen, I'll let you know.**

 **Song: Never Grow up by Taylor Swift was in my head at the time and may have influenced me to write the way I did.**

 **Lastly, please review! I'd love to know what YOU think of it.**

 **Next up: The last boy's childhood.**


	3. A Jewish Boy's Beginning

**A/N: Hello! This is finally up! My editors and I had a talk and we decided posting will happen on either Fridays or Sundays to be consistent for you. So you can expect the next chapter to be up this Friday or Sunday.**

 **Now, for the fun part. Reading! ;)**

* * *

Russell ran up his friend's driveway, hopped up the stairs to the porch, and knocked on the front door of the suburban home. He was on the move and wanted to get inside. _Now._ He knocked again, louder this time, with four steady beats. Sill, no answer.

 _How typical._ Russell mused as he looked up to see a silhouette scoping out the unexpected visitor from the second floor window. _He never does like it when anyone stops by without invitation. As if he has something to do_ , rolling his eyes, he rang the door bell twice in a row. _Seriously! What's taking you so long to get down here and open the door!?_

It wasn't as if they were having bad weather, though. In fact, it was quiet nice out. The sun shone brightly, but not too hot. The birds were about and the same squirrel Russell had named Nutty was at the family bird feeder again. He smiled as he took a second to watch Nutty get pecked in the head by an angry robin. The family never did enjoy it when animals would fight; it usually wasted their money, and injured one creature or another.

That's _what they think is cruel?_ he chuckled softly at the remembered notion. He, at ten-years-old, knew and accepted that animals hunted and ate other animals for food. He himself had eaten cow, pig, chicken, and even tried lamb. It seemed the natural order to him, but his friend and his friend's parents were Jews. No meat for them. He'd never understood it, even when the A honor roll student had tried to explain it to him. _Oh well, more for meat for me._

He heard the front door being opened and thankfully turned around. The ten-year-old with blue eyes, short brown hair and glasses had answered the door. "Finally!" Russell said, walking through the door without permission, something he knew peeved his friend. "And by the way, Nutty is at it again."

His friend sighed in exasperation and disgust. "Thanks again for inviting yourself over, and I _told_ you not to call him that! Give him a proper name," his friend closed the door behind Russell and walked after him into the kitchen, where he'd already started on the perfectly arranged fruit basket on the table.

"Russell!" He squeaked. "That was for decoration! Not eating. Stop; I'll get you something else to eat," he shuffled through the mostly full cabinets until he found two boxes of animal crackers, set them on the table, and grabbed two bottled waters from the fridge. Sitting down at the table, he scowled slightly at his friend.

 _Why does he have to be so... so..._ "What was that word you said the other day?"

"We talked a lot yesterday, Russell. You'll have to be more specific," his smartest friend's irritation at his impertinence shown through his tone and focus, which wasn't on him, but on opening his box of animal crackers. With a quick tug, he ripped the red box open, and pulled out a trunkless elephant. He raised his blue eyes to his classmates's brown ones and ate the elephant while watching him ponder about their earlier conversations.

Braking the dull stare, Russell opened his own box in thought, grabbed a handful of crackers, and accidentally spilled some crumbs on the hand-carved spruce table. Checking to see what animals he pulled out before he ate them, he said, "I have a question."

"What?" was the tepid response.

Russell abashed: "Why do you still eat animal crackers? You're ten." His friend didn't take the bait, so he threw in another line. "And I thought you didn't eat animals."

His friend furrowed his brow and shook his head side to side. "We, we don't eat animals. These aren't real animals, they are just animal shaped." Now he jerked his head slightly up and down to reiterate his point, as he always did. "And I eat them because Mom buys them. That's the polite thing to do."

"Look, sorry. I didn't want you to get upset at me. Again. You're just so," he paused looking for the right word. "fussy sometimes. And it's fun to-"

"Am not!" he defensively interjected slapping a hand on the table. "I just don't like it when you come in and mess everything up."

"Mess it up?" now Russell was offended. "I just come in and live. _You_ just want to keep everything boring, and dull."

The A student's voice sounded like a squeaky whine as he tried to justify his behavior, "It's not dull or boring; it's right. Everyone in this home is proper and everything has order." Taking a breath, he stated: "So it's worry free, calm, and normal." He paused between his listed attributes and talked with his head. At least, that's what Russell called it.

On the third day of school that year, he noticed that this kid was the only one to constantly be moving his head while talking as if it were his hands. Russell knew that some people talked with their hands, so he assumed that kid was just wired wrong so the motion would go to his head.

In fact, that was the first time he met his smart friend. He'd walked right up to him during lunch and asked him why he talked with his head. He had gotten a muddled visage and told that he spoke with his mouth, not his whole head. Then Russell explained what he meant only to ensure innocent annoyance and a tag-along relationship with whom soon became one of his only friends.

He never lost the annoying part though: "Yet you still worry all the time. And yes, it _is_ boring." He got another one of those glares which said, _I hate what you just said, but it's right._

His friend opened his mouth to retort Russell none the less, when both of the boys turned their heads to the noise of high-healed footsteps coming from the back of the newly refurnished house. Russell grinned mirthfully, eager to ultimately win this argument and taunted, "Betcha it's your mom, and betcha she's going to say hi, offer me more food if I want it, remind you to use your manors, and tell me where she'll be if I need anything."

Mrs. Ruth walked into the kitchen before her son could respond and smiled at the boys. She was dressed in a red button down shirt and black dress pants with bright red high-heals you might think were from _The Wizard of Oz_. Her brown hair was up in a bun and her dark eyes shone as she laid them on her only son and his guest. "Oh, hello Russell. What brings you here today?"

"I was thinking the same thing," her son contemptuously muttered.

"Use your manors," she corrected then regained her smile.

Russell chuckled at his friend's slumped, defeated form. Suddenly remembering his own manors, he addressed Mrs. Ruth's question. "I came over so we could work on a school project together."

"Oh, alright," she nodded, the answer satisfying her. "Well, if you need any more snacks, you know where to look, but if you're going to be here for awhile, I'll make you both lunch in an hour."

Enthusiasm filled Russell's voice: "Cool! What's for lunch?"

"Cheese and pickle sandwiches with no crust, two pieces of fruit, and a juice carton. The same lunch my son has had for six years and counting," she lightheartedly winked at her son and began to stroll back from where she came.

Her son sat up in his chair with a triumphant look on his face, only to have his mom turn around at the last possible second and say, "If you boys need me, I'll be in my office."

Russell watched Mrs. Ruth leave and waited for her to get out of ear shot before he burst out laughing, "And you thought I was _so_ wrong!" He almost doubled over in laughter.

The other ten-year-old slumped back down in his chair, his head resting on the red padded back, officially defeated: "Fino, bili ste u pravu što se Mama."

Russell stopped laughing and straightened in his chair. "Huh? Is that gibberish?" _Did he really stoop that low?_

His friend vindicated incredulously, "No. It was Croatian. I know most of the language now. That makes me bilingual. But I also want to learn Italian, and German, plus I'm going to take Spanish next semester and after that, I'll take French." He smiled to himself, no doubt feeling better by knowing a language Russell didn't understand.

 _Of course he didn't stoop that low. He never has anyway. He's always too smart and genteel. That was the word! Genteel! Ha, so I'm not stupid after all. But still,_ "I've never even _heard_ of that language," Russell groaned in disbelief. "You're way smarter than me."

The honor roll student took a brief moment to pride himself: "Yes, I am." Then being the boy he was, he offered encouragement to Russell, "But if you studied and worked on learning things you would be just as smart."

"Yeah, maybe," Russell admitted fiddling with a lion-shaped cracker in his hand. "Though I don't want to study. I don't like it like you do. It's not fun for me. You seem to crave it, but I don't even care. The only ones who care are my parents," the fun-loving young one confessed.

Then his smartest friend figured it out: "So that's why you came over today. You want me to do your project for you." He frowned.

"Aw, would you? Thanks! I'll stay for lunch though. Then you can come get me at my place when you're done." Russell ran at the mouth, jumped out of the dinning chair, and made a beeline for the TV in the living room.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," his friend stood up and held his hands as if to slow him down. "Number one, _I'm_ not doing _your_ project for you! Number two, _we_ -"

Russell turned around on his heels, scraping the wooden floor with his shoes he still hadn't taken off, and moaned. "But I'm going to fail this class if you don't do a perfect job on this! Who am I going to get to do the project if not you?"

Then a friendly face trotted into the newly redecorated and brightly colored kitchen. His offer of help came out in a "Ruff!" as Rocky, his friend's French Bulldog, barked at Russell.

"See, even Rocky will help." Russell was pleading now. He _needed_ him.

It wasn't the first time either. A few months or so ago, the situation was different, but just as dire to him. Russell had come up to his newly found friend with news he thought he'd never have. He quietly told him that he'd fallen behind in school so much that he'd started cheating. He would find the answer key and slip it into class with him on test days. His friend's eyes had filled with shock. Never had such a thing crossed his mind. The A student nervously told him that he needed to stop, because it could get him suspended, and it was wrong. Russell had questioned why it was wrong only to get a 'God said so'. But his new friend said that he'd help him get out of his mess and start living right.

So together they fasted for a meal to clear his sins. Afterwords, he had privately explained to the teacher what he'd done, that he wouldn't do it again, and he understood if punishment was to ensue.

Russell considered himself better than everyone else when his teacher told him that she wouldn't punish him and thought it brave of him to confess his sin to her and right it. Though he soon realized that it was his friend who inspired him to be honorable in his situation.

His good friend hadn't condemned him, but showed him kindness by keeping quiet, helping him recover, and never judging him. He'd shown him what a friend was actually like. He'd shown him love when he was all but a stranger, shown him the way when he didn't know where to go, gave him love and compassion by helping him study for those tests, continued to help him even after that time had passed, and did most of it without fretting or getting too worked up.

His friend had always been around since then and they had many more adventures together. If only this kind boy could see that he needed him now.

"Please. I really need you again. You know you want to be there for me!" Rocky sighed, as if knowing his offered help had been rejected, and lumbered over to his owner, who picked up his gray pet to comfort him. _He loves that dog like my mom loves me._ Russell thought.

His friend's eyes widened and he exclaimed, "I almost forgot! I haven't walked Rocky yet today. I always walk him at noon and it's almost one." Rocky barked an excited bark when he heard 'walk' and wiggled in his owners arms. His owner held him tight, not to let him fall, and set him down with one last rub. "I need to go. Bye Russell. I'll see you to the door, just let me get Rocky's lead."

Russell was about to panic: "Oh, come on! Won't you _please_ do it for me? You're _such_ a good friend."

Rocky's owner didn't brake his hurried stride, "I know I am, but I'm not doing it for you and I've got to go." He reached the small basket where the family kept their dog stuff and shuffled clumsily through it.

"Again, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said you were boring. It was mean. I didn't mean to make you feel bad." Russell thought hard. _What would help win him over... Ah!_ "Will you forgive me for being so rude?"

His friend stopped searching and sighed in submission. Looking up from the basket, he rested his eyes on his friend. "Of course. You were right after all. We are boring. But we're normal. We're good. Dad doesn't have a single handicap; not smoking, or drinking, or gambling, like other dads. And as for Mom, she just likes to cover her bases, is all. We are a good, consistent, normal, orderly, boring, family. I couldn't see it any other way.

"And as for your project," he paused and offered Russell a gleeful smile. "I'll do it with you."

"Thank you!" Russell exclaimed, and then it hit him. "Wait... _With?_ Like do it together?"

The Jew stood up and waved a hand so Russell would know to follow him to his room. "Yes, that's exactly what I mean. Don't worry, whatever it is, I'll teach you and we'll work on it together. When is it due?"

"May 8th, 1995: Tomorrow," the procrastinating child stated calmly.

The A student stopped in his tracks and turned to face him in one swift motion. "And, and, what is it, exactly?" Russell could see the worry spawning in him.

"You have to make a scale model of a war zone and army camp resembling World War I." Russell shrugged. "It doesn't sound hard, but I don't know what World War I was even about."

Now he was defiantly worried. "Didn't Mrs. Pearson go over it in class?! Are you sure that those are all the requirements? Have long have you had to work on it?! The only bright side I can see to this is that it has nothing to do with PE and evil Mr. Logue!"

Russell watched him battle his neurosis in the hallway with an unperturbed expression. _If he talks with his head much more, he'll jerk it so hard it'll fall off. Why is he so panicked anyway?_

His project partner paused from his rant and took a deep breath. "Seriously. Why am I doing this? I could be doing something I want to instead of freaking out over your model."

"Because you don't want to see me fail knowing that you could have done something about it, you can't resist helping people, you know it's the right thing to do, you're kind, protective, and you don't understand anything save it's something to do with order, structure, or normality and failing isn't on the list."

George Sands Jr. stared in quiet disbelief at his friend's response to his rhetorical question. It was entirely true and Russell loved it when he dumbfounded him.

George turned in the direction of his room and flatly stated his mind before walking into his room with Russell in tow. "Right, then after this, I need a new friend, who can't tell me why I do what I do, and make me do it anyway."

"Sure," Russell's mischievous mind stole his words. "Then you'll miss me and come back begging to be friends again. Cause the new friend would have to be wild and thoughtless."

"Never. I don't want to be around such people. They offend me. But you, even at your worst, just annoy me. So, you're a keeper." A small smile played on George's lips as he sat down at his desk and gestured for Russell to take the seat beside him.

 _That's the thing about George, nothing can make him willingly compromise who he is._ And with a smile on his face, Russell sat down beside his good friend and thought, _And I hope nothing ever will._

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 **A/N: So, that's George's childhood for you! I hope you enjoyed it.**

 **Trivia: Russell gets his name from George's actor in Being Human, and Rocky altogether is Russell's real dog; I had to put him in there.**

 **Next: Annie as a human adult.**

 **And as always, make my day and PLEASE REVIEW!**


	4. The Night in the Pink Flat

**A/N: Hey everyone! I'm not dead after all! I'll quote John Lennon as my excuse, "Life's what happens to you when you're busy making other plans." Anyway, things were put on pause for a minute, but the play button has been pressed again! I'll start on the next chapter tomorrow.**

 **As always, enjoy the chapter!**

* * *

 _This flat is starting to feel like home_ , Annie thought as she folded one of their soft white towels while doing the laundry. She hummed softly, deep in thought. _It'll be better once we stop living out of boxes though._

After folding a pair of her fiancée's socks, she paused to brush a few locks of her hair that had fallen into her face behind her ear. _After this, I really do need to go finish those sketches for college. They're due tomorrow, but I've been so busy with unpacking, house work, and planning our marriage. I wonder if Owen's back from work? If he can clean the bathroom and finish unpacking the kitchen, it would save me a lot of time._

She glanced up at a wall clock which read 8:47pm. _He gets off at 5 today. Where's he been?_ she wondered.

Just then, she heard the _clink_ of his key in the front door of their pink corner flat. Excited to see him, her visage beamed. She walked from the laundry room through the kitchen with it's doorless doorway into the foyer.

The man that entered had black wavy hair, dark thick eyebrows, deep brown eyes, and a little bit of scruff that would need to be shaved in a few days. His features were well formed, both round and sharp, almost always looking professional. He wore a green dress sweater under his black leather jacket with black jeans and brown shoes.

He walked right passed her to put his jacket up on the stand just by the staircase in the small open room to his right. "Hi Owen! How was work today?" Annie inquired in a cheery manor.

He complained, "Fine. They gave us too much to do and no time to do it. I've got two days to display two dozen huge boxen of crap in the store and still keep up with customers and mangers who couldn't care less if my payroll was on the line. They want me to check and see if their sofa is in yet when they could just wait _one more_ day for it to be delivered or my stupid boss wants me to get out in the store and look happy and sell furniture that will just as well sell itself. On top of that, I have to design another _fake_ website for class and manage to sleep and eat!"

"Oh," the brunette responded in a heedful way to her antagonized beloved. She tried not to stir up the grumbling volcano underneath his surface.

 _He's not a bad guy. Not at a all! He just gets angry sometimes, like everyone else. It's just best to avoid it if I can_. Frowning for only a half-second she changed her thoughts, _He'll cheer up soon, and we'll have a nice evening as long as we're together. I even went to the store today and picked up something for after our marriage in a few weeks! We'll be so happy!_ "I'm sorry Love. Maybe we could lift your spirits a bit by doing a chore or two together and talking about it before we get started on our work."

Dissing the idea, he gave her a cynical eye: "Annie. Maybe you didn't hear me, so I'll say it again. I'm _busy_." He seemed to tease her with a half smile and a stern voice.

"Right, sorry. Then I'll do it myself," she dropped her head to the wooden floor and sighed as he trotted up stairs to their room, not giving her a second glance. "Alone... Again."

Annie looked around the small room and dozens of unopened boxen towered high and low, and scattered as if they lived in a box minefield. She stepped her way back through them all and traipsed the short distance back to the laundry room. The brunette slung the towels over one arm while grabbing the wash-cloths in her free hand and made her way to the bathroom. She'd put her and Owen's whites away afterwords, to give him a bit of time.

Opening the bathroom door, she tossed most of the large towels in the closet, placed the two on the silver towel rack beside the toilet, and laid a hand towel on the black counter near the sink. She took a second to look at herself in the mirror after she'd set down her things.

"How can I cheer Owen up?" she asked her reflection. It didn't answer her, but it looked as contemplative as she was. It did remind her the room needed cleaning, though she didn't know if she had time to get it done.

She proceeded to the kitchen they hadn't finished modeling yet. At least she should put the kitchen things in their new home. She knelt down, picked up a half-empty box, and set it on their small wooden table against the yellow wallpapered wall. She sat down in one of the three chairs and grabbed a few plates to place in the sliver handled white cabinets whose semi-transparent glass doors were trim lined with yellow.

Annie loved keeping busy as much as she hated it at times. It was always a good, productive time to think... or use as a distraction, depending on the day.

Now it was thinking time as she put away the dishes. After filling the cabinets, she walked across the room to the dark grey countertops and a dark grey, cream, dirt brown, and burgundy tile back splash that matched all but the yellows in the room. There, she had many tan shelves to fill with anything from small appliances to soaps and everything in between; including the parsley shredder she'd bought as an engagement present for Owen. She found another box with such things and laid it near the silver sink, which was brimming with dishes that needed to be cleaned.

Currys had come yesterday to install a dishwasher and oven in the mess of a kitchen. They'd put the used dishwasher in along the counter tops and the oven on the pastel peach wall to the left of sink. She stared at it for a moment, wondering what she'd do with the empty space to both sides. _Maybe we should put in some more countertops, or some kind of stand, or cabinets. I'll always need a little more room to put kettles and tea cups._ She smiled as she set one of her oldest and most precious tea cups on a shelf next to the window above the sink. _The last time I filled this one was for my last chat with Mum, all those years ago. If Owen still thinks I should give it away cause I won't use it, he's crazy,_ she nodded in agreement with herself and giggled at the childish action.

Continuing to work, she got lost in her thoughts. _I wonder what Mum would have said about Owen. He's kind and smart, and sometimes reminds me of Dad._

 _When I first met him on the fourth day of college this year, something just clicked, like I knew I loved him from the start. I was late getting to my next class and quiet literally ran into him as I turned a corner. He reached out and steadied me so I wouldn't fall and held me at a distance and looked me over, while I looked at him. Who was thinking about class at that point? He snapped out of his trace after a moment, but I was still caught up in mine. 'Careful running around like that. You might get hurt,' he'd said, letting go of me. I could only nod at the hottest, dreamiest man I'd seen who just expressed care for me! 'R-right. I'm sorry. Shouldn't have been running... I'm Annie! Who are you? I mean, what's your name?' I felt stupid for a moment then tried to recover. He just smiled at me, 'I'm a student at tech collage not too far off and am only here fixing some of the old computers so you can design electronically. My name's Owen Norayan. It's a pleasure to meet you, Annie.' He'd pause just for a second before he said, 'Has anyone told you that you look like an angel?' I was blushing, I couldn't help it. And that stupid tardy bell rung just to ruin the moment, I was sure. I told him I had to go and as I walked passed, he slipped his phone number into my sketch book._

 _We've been seeing each other since. Last month, we got engaged._

 _I hope Mum would approve of us. He's nothing like my past two boyfriends, those jerks. We're not perfect either, but it's love. I love him more than anything. He brings out the best in me, and I in him. And he needs me, whether he thinks it or not._

"I hope you're in Heaven, Mum, if there is such a place. You deserve it... And I want to see you again. Though I do prefer living myself."

Annie let her guilty feelings go, apologizing to her Mum or whoever was listening: "I'm sorry that I wished Janey dead that time, honest. I was just, jealous. Owen seemed to like her too... but it's obvious he loves me more. He proposed to me, not her."

O _wen and I really have it here. After the wedding, we can do so much! I'm happy as long as I'm with him. Being with him, touching him, watching him. I'll do anything for him! All I want is children..._

 _I wonder what they'll be like. Ooh! And what we'll name them! The first little boy has to be Owen the second, but the first little girl... Hm. Maybe Jenny, Heather, or Bailey. Isabella, Lucy, or what about Francesca? I've always liked those names... Or whatever Owen wants to name her. I just want her!_ Annie merrily fantasized about the happy and fulfilled life that was just beginning for her and her fiancée.

Before she knew it, she got lost in her rhythm of work and thought. She let two hours slip by and got the entry room unpacked and some of the living room along with her initial objective.

The young woman with curls stood up and looked around at the flat with pride. _This really is my home._

Suddenly Annie gasped and ran into the kitchen, grabbing a box of crackers and a cup of tea she'd been working on while unpacking and flew upstairs. She'd forgotten to do her sketches!

She ripped open the door to the old pink room she'd taken a liking to from the start. It's walls were pink, but a gray, dusty looking pink, though still beautiful to her. In the middle of the room was an oversized chair that the previous owners hadn't wanted to take with them. She liked this almost empty room so much! It's where she did her homework and sketches. Plus, the two windows behind the chair gave her the perfect lighting for drawing and a nice view of the neighborhood in the day time.

She plopped down into the chair, setting her teacup and crackers on the floor and taking her sketchbook from the chair's arm. She took a deep breath to calm herself. She rarely worked well when stressed. Especially at 11:03 at night when she had a big test to study for the next day.

Annie had to design three outfits that screamed feminine, winter, and romance. Quite unlike her current outfit: white tank top, a sleeveless gray button down vest, with an open gray sweater, along with cozy black pants, a few silver rings, and gray, woven fabric, button-up boots. Well, maybe it was like what she needed.

She scribbled a few ideas, and still had nothing. She hated this theme, she just couldn't get with it.

"Annie. I need to see you," Owen hailed, sounding much more content with life than a few hours before.

The 22-year-old set her pencil and book back down on the arm of her chair and rapped her own arms around herself for a moment to comfort herself over being so worked up about this assignment. "Coming," she called after him and got up out of the red chair with the fancy gold design.

She walked into their bedroom, where her future husband had been working hard on his laptop. He was standing in the corner, by the dresser and smiling at her.

"Hey Owen. You look better," Annie smiled back but his face was unchanging. _Okay... Maybe not._ "Did you get your website done?"

"Annie," he repeated, drawing it out as if chastising a small child. "Don't you know _why_ I called you in here?" He was starring at her with an intensity she didn't know he had. She looked him up and down, noting a hand behind his back. She felt, well, a little scared.

Her mind raced to think of why he could possibly be acting this way. It came up blank. She didn't know. She didn't know what to do either. It was too late at night to be thinking clearly so she shrugged off her nerves and took a step closer to him. Unperturbed, she admitted, "No, I don't know Owen. Whatever it is, we can fix it or sort it out."

His normal, gleeful laugh was replaced with a derisive one. Annie held back a shutter. "No. You've done it. It's over. We're over."

Annie could have sworn her heart stopped beating: "Owen," she begged incredulously.

" _Do not_ even try to redeem yourself! I'll show you what you did!" He was beyond ticked off, rage emanated from every part of his being. Terror gripped her and she darted out of the room. She didn't understand. She couldn't understand.

Annie was in the pink room, which now felt cold and exposed. Her heart told her to try and reason with her fiancée. This wasn't him, it wasn't her. Nothing had happen between them.

Owen's stomping came closer and closer. She fought for her courage: "Owen, I have no idea what your talking about. Please-"

"Look!" he yelled, bursting through the doorway. In his hand was a thong. The thong she'd bought for them soon...

"Owen, it's not what you think! I-"

"Had an affair with some guy from work!" His voice rose with intensity and volume and she felt as if she was shirking in fear.

Without warning, Owen charged and grabbed her shoulder. His fiancée tried to run and he pushed her into the hall, slammed her body against the wall, and put a hand on one side of her to pin her. "Do you take me for a fool? You never loved me." He declared barely an inch from Annie's face as she involuntarily shivered. "No, no! I would never."

"You're cheap Annie. You're pathetic. You know that." He kept on Annie, almost hitting her with his free hand.

"No. Stop. Owen please! Don't!" She pleaded, wiggling slightly, unable to keep still.

He grabbed her by the hair as she screamed in fear and pain. In one motion, the love of her life slung her into opposite wall with a crack. "Pathetic!"

"Owen, please, you're hurting me!" She whimpered, completely nonplussed and afraid.

"Did you wear it for him? Did you wear it?!" he held her against the wall, shoving it in her face. His whole being was vibrating in wrath.

"No-ah!" He twisted his fist full of her hair. She felt stuck; out of options. Maybe if she claimed she did, he wouldn't hurt her as much as he would if she denied it. "I'm sorry! Owen, I'm sorry!" she shrieked as he pulled back to hit her.

He suddenly pushed her away and they both hit the walls opposite to each other in the narrow hallway.

Annie had to get away from this nightmare. She felt the wall and desperately slid against it. He saw what she was doing and waited, making her even more afraid.

Then the brunette knew why, she felt the open gap in the wall: a few more feet back and around the small corner, were the stairs. She sank into the opening, holding onto the walls on both sides: trapped.

He saw his chance and stormed up to her. Owen postured up on her and she let go of the walls as he grabbed Annie by her arms. The young women froze in fear.

"She-devil!" he spat, centimeters from her face and pushed her as hard as he could.

She bashed the wall behind her at an angle. She lost control of her body as she fell down the stairs. All Annie knew was fear, immense pain in her head, then nothing at all.

* * *

 **A/N: Well, Annie is dead! Poor Annie, I felt so bad writing this one. Like her death was my fault or something. And yes, it did deviate slightly from the original so it's clean and such.**

 **Trivia: Isabella is Lenora's middle name, Lucy is her mother, and Francesca is her other sister.**

 **Song: Smooth Criminal by Michael Jackson**

 **Up next: Mitchell as a human adult**

 **Of course, if you liked what you read, PLEASE REVIEW!**


	5. The Death on the Western Front

**A/N: Hello all my patient readers! Thank you for sticking with me even though this one took an insanely long time. I have excuses, but this time I'll just quote J. R. R. Tolkien, "All is well that ends better." And better it is now that this up!**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

The young soldier sat on the grass just outside his camp and smoked his cigarette, trying to steady his mind and heart as the sun's first rays poked over the horizon.

Yesterday was mail day, and that was good. He'd gotten a letter from his parents reminding him how much they missed him and couldn't wait for his leave in five weeks. He missed them too, but he tried not to think about it. About them.

He couldn't reverie about his past, his home, the innocent boy he once was, or the young man who had wanted to serve in the army four long years ago. That man had good intentions, to help people, aid in the removal of an evil oppressor. How he wished that ignorant man hadn't made that decision. Life would have been so very different. But, he was ignorant no more.

This man was a soldier in command of the 32nd Battalion in the British army in The Great War.

He had become hardened, toughened, and suspicious from the fighting, the death, and the army lifestyle itself. It came as quite a shock. He had expected hard work and training, but not this. They were pushed beyond their breaking points daily.

He thought he understood it at first; every drill, job, and strenuous exercise had a purpose. He saw past that now. If everything did have a purpose, it was for his commanding officers' amusement. Even when they could be treated better, they still were given rags to wear, scraps to eat, and were worked liked animals.

 _I wonder how they'd like it_ , John Mitchell scoffed. _Here, day after day, fight after fight, injury after injury, death after death, it's normal. It's daily life._ They _were_ fighting for a reason, but he'd sometimes forget what it was amongst the pain of their lives.

As John inhaled deeply and let the smoke out slowly, he shut his eyes, taking in the moment of rest he'd been given. He shot them back open and frowned. He couldn't stop seeing his men falling in battle behind his eyelids. He could see them dying under his orders and his watch, because of him. Knowing someone was wounded under you felt like being wounded yourself. It was a fear that came along with his new rank as a lieutenant, and he couldn't shake it.

He stared harshly at his dark green boots: _Does anyone even care? We're fighting for their peace, starving so they may be well fed, hurting for their comfort, dying so they may live another day._ He knew some did and some didn't. Some worked to raise money and awareness for the soldiers. Some were like the doctors and orderlies, not caring whether they lived or died as long as they were content in their own lives. _Here, if you're too content to heed an order, you're flogged. If you don't dodge fast enough in the field, you're wounded._ Life was a struggle now, even at it's most comforting times.

But he did have comradeship. He had friends, and to John, it was friendship that was most important. School and church were once very important to him. But now, school held no relevance and church didn't matter. He had given up his faith four years ago, never telling his beloved father and mother. A downhearted feeling started up within him, though he kept his expression neutral. _They won't understand. But my friends do._

His friends were the type that would struggle with him, beside him, and for him. And he for them. They were a band of brothers. They did everything together. They were the type you knew understood, and if not, than they'd try. They'd sit by you, listen to you, keep your secrets and your fears, drink with you, laugh with you, find that rare piece of chicken and give it to you. They would die for you. John would do anything for his men, and they for him.

His best mate, Anders Johnson, had done all that for him. He had been a soldier a year before John entered the army. He'd brought him up, so to speak. They were almost inseparable upon meeting. They knew each other like the back of their hands and had been very close.

Now, in a coffin laid his body. It's leg ripped from the hip and ribs poking through the chest. That's the least a shell could do to you; he had witnessed it.

He'd fallen to the ground as he was pushed to the side. He'd turned and watched as an explosion tore away Anders' right leg and scorch his face. He'd run over to him through the smoke and debris to see how he'd landed on that jagged bolder, disheveling his body. Unfortunately, his head had landed quiet safely. He'd bled to death. It wasn't a slow death, but not quick enough for John's comfort.

All along he'd seen men fall on both sides. He'd seen their pain and fear, their hopelessness. He'd seen the light fade from their eyes as they took their final breath. At first, it frightened him. He was stricken with remorse. _Is my life really worth as much as the other man's? Why are we even fighting each other? In other times, we might have been mates even closer than Anders._

He sat up straighter and pursed his lips, _But we have no choice. Kill, or be killed. This is war. The entirety of it is to seek life and avoid death. It's a selfish thing, really. It could take the purest heart and turn it cold. There comes a point when it's solely about survival, not what we're fighting for._

They would become beasts protecting themselves at all costs. Shooting the opposing men they saw without question. Flinging themselves in a shell-hole as the enemy retaliated, only to move to kill another with their knife.

It was a blur. Your instincts would do the majority and your head the rest. How many lives had he taken without thought or care? Sure we're fighting for the lives of the innocent, but aren't these men innocent as well? Who have they killed before setting foot in battle?

John's stomach felt weak. He knew it all too well. It was all around him, everywhere he looked. So many human lights had been blown out. So many lives that should have lived on passed this God forsaken war. So many... He was so _tired_ of _death_!It's all he could see this war to really be. A waste of good men.

The boom of a cannon shook him out of his thoughts for a moment as he shifted his non-focused gaze in the direction he heard it. He frowned as the sounds of war only continued.

He knew it had been going on the whole time he was sitting in the grass smoking, but he'd tried to put it out of his mind. He couldn't take the constant reminder. When he wasn't fighting, he knew he shouldn't dwell on it for his own good. But here he was anyway so might as well hear it too. _If I could choose my battle, I'd fight against war._

John finished his cigarette and stood up to stretch his cold muscles. The harsh French breeze made him shiver slightly and wish he had another cigarette.

He turned his face to the northwest. Home. He knew in five weeks, the twenty-fourth of July, he'd be there.

His army green uniform ruffled softy in the wind as the smells of powder, dirt, and death hit his nostrils. John no longer belonged at home in Ireland, though he wished he did. He didn't know how to belong in society, only how to act on the front.

Only his friends knew who he was now and why he was so changed. _Will I ever be able to live a normal life after this?_

The soldier's downcast eyes rested on the brown grass as it struggled in the wind. The uncertainty of his future added yet another stone to the heavy load he carried. He wished he could be happy as his men could.

Nothing that the other men took pleasure in made John happy. Not food, nor talk. Not goofing off nor getting extra sleep. Not even mail day could lift his spirits. That part of him had left long ago. He wasn't sure when or the exact reason why, but it was gone. There was nothing the young soldier could truly find happiness in.

 _What a mad world we live in_ , John mused. But his thoughts were disrupted once again, but this time, by a voice.

"Corporal Hanely," John whispered into the wind. Arthur Hanely who was a few short years older than John with short brown hair spoke once again: "John, you and your troop are needed now. Scouts say that there are still a few Germans over in Arras and they need to be taken care of. It'll be you, Ivor, Dorian, Lorrance and your men. It shouldn't take too long. Did you get the report?"

The lieutenant cast one last look at the sunrise and muttered, crestfallen at what he knew was to come, "Yes sir." He offered his Corporal a wan smile: "I was putting it off Arthur. But I guess that's over. Here we go again."

Arthur Hanely smiled back, snorting lightly in amusement before walking into the Allies' Fort in St. Omer.

John followed his British friend into the fort's large briefing room where the troops were prepping to go. Though they appeared determined and ready, he saw the look in their eyes and they were feeling the same dread as he did. It ate at the back of his mind and heart. This was it. His first day as their lieutenant.

The young soldier walked to the front of the room and stopped to face his men. "Attention! Line up!"

"Sir, yes sir!" was their response as they scurried to their positions, then stood at attention.

John took a small breath then started briefing his troop. They were going to take care of some Germans behind their lines, nothing new.

Time seemed to haze and before he knew it, they had almost finished their task. Fifty six Germans had been taken prisoner and most of the resisting killed. A group of about ten had run into the nearby woods. The new lieutenant couldn't ignore them, he'd have to go in after them.

He'd always hated fighting in the woods. It was too easy to get picked off. But he needed to do this, as long as he wasn't up against another army.

John approached Ivor who was busy barking out orders for his troop to take the prisoners back to their transports. He was a small man who packed a big punch, but you would never guess it under his normally cheery mask. However, he could become quiet stern in the field. "Lieutenant Ivor! I just saw a couple of enemies retreat into the woods. Didn't your men clear that area before we engaged?"

The British red head finished his successive commands and turned to face his peer. "They did," Ivor confirmed. "Do you want us to go with you?"

"No. I'll have my troop behind me. We should be more than enough." Some part of him disapproved of those words, but the other was determined to get it done. It was a good way to ease into his fears.

His fellow lieutenant nodded curtly: "Meet us back at the transports as soon as you're able." John almost jumped when an unexpected hand came to rest on his shoulder. "We'll wait on you. Take care John," Ivor's eyes were understanding and reassuring. He'd known John for years now and was his trusted companion.

The younger man offered a quick half smile, "Will do."

Ivor gently squeezed his shoulder for a brief moment, then released him and gathered the rest of their men to head back.

"Battalion 32!" John called out. His men came running and all thirty looked at him expectantly, ready for what he'd have them do. _They trust me, but I can't seem to trust myself._

"Alright boys. A few men made off into that patch of woods. There's nothing in there for them to be going for. We shoot to kill. Harrison to Jase, flank the forest. I'll be scouting ahead by ten minutes, then the rest of you fall in. Be on your guard, they may be sniping. Any questions?"

"No sir," came their reply.

John felt some relief flow through him. This wasn't going to be as bad as he'd envisioned. "Then move out!"

The men nipped off: "Yes sir!"

John followed them to the woods and stood before it with slight hesitation. He drew in a steady breath and let it out calmly; the young lieutenant proceeded.

The still early sun shrouded the forest in a dense fog as the young soldier stalked through it. Every time he would hear something, anything, he'd have his rifle on it. However, the crows didn't seem very intimidated. He let himself relax, then move in deeper.

Soon, he heard something different: the scuffling of a foot in the dirt, the cracking of leaves under someone's weight, and a soft gurgling that made his heart freeze.

John knew that sound; It was a sound of death. Someone had died nearby.

Adrenalin raced throughout his system as he cautiously picked his way towards the noise on the forest floor. He scanned his surroundings and not too far along, he saw something shining amongst the dust and fog. Trotting over to it, he recognized it was a German soldier's corpse. It was a week or so old, by the smell and color. _Cop on. That's all it was. Nothing to lose it over_ , he leerily assured himself.

But both they and the Germans had mostly avoided the woods during the battle. _How'd this man end up in here?_

 _He probably wanted to die in peace_ , he told himself shaking off his rising dread. The young soldier had never felt this way before on the field. Something was different, though he couldn't figure it out. He scrutinized the body for injury to find nothing visible from where he was squatting. _I'm only paranoid. He might have been stabbed where I can't see it._

 _Crunch_. John shot his head up and intently scanned the woods for the source of the unnerving sounds. He carefully stood up and plodded forward, ducking under a branch with his weapon raised and heart pounding.

Within seconds his eyes landed on them. There where two, no four, menacing silhouettes against the horizon thirty meters away. He aimed and cocked his rifle at the closest man, ready to fire, but something made him hesitate.

As the lieutenant took in the situation: all three men were wearing British uniforms, two stood tall and one knelt over someone on the ground. As the lieutenant focused his eyes, he found that the man on the ground was a German officer. _Who are they!? Did they kill him? They can't be friendlies._

The man in the trench coat bent over the laying body looked up and stared John in the eye, then sifted his intimidating gaze to the blonde man standing closest to him. That man, wearing a general's uniform, turned to face John. His gaze bore into him as his companion reached for the weapon resting on the ground beside the body, confirming the young soldier's frightful conclusion.

John gaped nonplussed as courses of action whirled through his mind, but he did none of them. The blonde man who appeared to be in his forties hadn't taken his unearthly gaze off of him. It was cold and empty, his face expressionless.

The young soldier had seen enough and was about to fire when a wicked smile slowly stretched across the general's face. Fear beyond all measure ripped through him as that smile grew fangs and his eyes morphed jet black. He hissed loudly, sending a shudder down John's spine.

Somehow, he gathered the courage to speak: "Stay where you are. Who are you? What are you doing here?"

The general's face receded back to normality as he chuckled. "So brave to be asking questions. The last one just froze before Seth slit his throat. I wonder what he was thinking."

The idea flashed through the lieutenant's mind to call for his men and the general seemed to sense it: "Oh, I wouldn't _deliberately_ call anyone, soldier. Someone else already tired that. He's over there," the man shrugged a shoulder to his left to indicate the sprawled corpses. The sight of the forty or so dead men only hardened the lieutenant's resolve.

"Who are you?" he firmly repeated. This time, he would get an answer.

The blonde's dry tone was heard once more, "You don't want to believe your eyes, do you?" While the general waited for a response, the soldier postured up and fixed his weapon that he'd let slip in surprise. "If you don't like us, then just shoot us. It won't make a difference, I assure you," the general tempted.

John couldn't. Even though they were obviously murderers, he couldn't fire his rifle. This threat had confounded him again. He'd never seen men so cocky right before their death. They were different.

"Can we just _drink him_ already?!" begged the impertinent man he thought to be Seth. He was holding his weapon at the ready but stood protectively over his latest kill. "You didn't let me have enough of this one."

John felt his chest thighten. He couldn't refute the dreaded notion that racked his mind any more: "You're vampires."

The general broadened his haunted smile, "Ding ding. You deserve a prize. Would you like the knife, the fangs, or perhaps you'd like your throat ripped out.

"But before we continue, who else do you have for us? Where are your men, lieutenant?"

A frigid chill froze him. He _was_ leading his men to their deaths. If these vampires were anything like the legends he had heard as a lad, they were fast, strong, and almost invincible. He knew that even if he put up a fight, it would be for nothing. They would have their way.

But he would not give away his men. "I came alone. My men are back at camp. I was to follow and take care of the last Germans."

"Umm. Wrong," the vampire chided as if sarcastically correcting a stubborn student.

"You are so fortunate that I'm feeling good this morning. What's your name, boy?"

John felt ill. The vampire was toying with him. _Might as well play along_ : "John Ruairí Mitchell."

"Well John, I don't like it when people lie to me when the answer is obvious. So I'll give you one last chance. Where are your men, soldier?" The lead vampire calmly nodded, surely expecting the truth this time.

"Those men are _my_ responsibility. I won't tell you where they are. Ever," John stood tall in unwavering resolution.

The vampire's icy blue eyes narrowed and threatened to rid his heart of any hope he still had. Then he raised an eyebrow and grinned, "Ha! Would you look at that? He won't tell us. I like you John. You're brave, unmovable, and loyal."

 _Why is he still toying with me?_ the soldier was completely unnerved. He reined his reactions in check to keep the vampire in the dark as best he could.

The leader of the trio strode toward the younger man and stopped ten feet from him, chatting in chilling confidence all the way, "And since I like you so much, I'll explain to you our little dilemma. You see, we vampires have to prey on the living if we want to gain anything from it. Even though killing them all would be enjoyable, I only need one more man to be sated."

Before Seth could groan, the general continued, "Because I really am feeling so generous right now, I'll let you chose which of your men I feed from."

John's eyes were paralyzed with fear for his troop and held stock-still; the lump in his throat overthrew his ability to speak.

"Oh, come on now! Don't tell me there isn't _one_ person who doesn't see eye to eye with you, or hasn't hurt you, or wronged you. Or just whom you like the least. Come on, we all play favorites. Who's not worth keeping around?" The ernest coaxing did nothing to persuade the soldier.

No matter what, the young lieutenant would not knowingly send any of his men to death. Panic surged through John as he tried to come up with an answer.

"John, I don't have all day, and neither do your men. I order you to give me an answer. Now." Seeing no response, the vampire continued, "Or I'll just have to let Seth here ambush your troop like he desperately desires." Sincerity riddled the monster's tone.

John knew what to do and was overcome with dolor. A sick feeling gnawed at his stomach as he visibly shivered at the thought. Closing his eyes, he sucked in a breath and gripped his rifle tightly before dropping it to the ground with a thud. The words that came across his lips were as firm as his decision.

"You can have me, just leave my men alone."

"Oh, what a noble turn of events," the vampire's smile shone through his voice. "If those are your conditions, then here are mine. You're not to put up a fight in anyway or call for help. Do exactly as I say."

"Yes sir." With that, John sealed his fate with a heavy heart. _At least my men will be safe._

The fog around him seemed to conceal them in the woods, as if shielding what was about to happen the rest of the world. _I signed up for this. I knew death was always an option; I just never thought I'd see it coming and allow it._

The vampire came to stand within an inch of his face and stared longingly at his throat, eager for the kill. John didn't need to watch; he closed his eyes in alarm as he pictured the gruesome demise.

A chill breath on the left side of his neck snapped him back to the moment: "Tilt your head John."

He managed to open his eyes and peer the vampire starring intently at the chilled spot. With one last shuddering breath the soldier followed his orders, relaxed his body, and submitted his life, accepting his lot.

The vampire's eyes turned black and his canines extended to a sharp point. The monster's body tensed as he quickly jerked his head from it's fixated spot on John's neck to his face. "The name's Herrick."

Then he hissed loudly and John felt a sharp macabre pain as Herrick's fangs sank into the side of his neck. He clinched his eyes shut and gasped. He felt steady hands on his shoulder and face that kept him from struggling. But the vampire didn't need to hold him, terror had frozen his bones. It was war between the fire of pain and the ice of horror.

The lieutenant was nauseated by the knowledge of the monster feeding from his body's blood. John had spent four years on the battle field fighting for his life. He didn't want to die, but this time, he could not, would not fight it. _I'm dying for a reason_ , he told himself over fire and ice in his veins. _I'm dying for my men. I'm okay. I'll be okay._ He didn't believe himself. As his emotions flurried, all he wanted to do was cry. But he would not let his murderer have that victory.

The soldier whimpered as the pain in the neck increased to a roaring blaze as he felt something burst. It took every ounce of his being not to move.

As he started to feel disconnected, he attempted to take in even breaths, but his body refused as they came in quick, shallow, and labored. Waves of panic ran through him as vision and hearing slowly left him. It wasn't long before his legs started shaking while a cold trickle befell him.

His strength was failing. He shouldn't have to die like this. Like a fly falling victim to a spider. He was prey, he was a meal, he was dying. Shame rose up within him but the soldier couldn't afford to focus on it; standing took all of the ebbing effort he possessed.

Just when he lost control of his muscles, the pressure was relieved from his neck and strong hands lowered him to the ground. Now he shook for a new reason, the feeling of his own warm blood pouring down the side of his neck and soaking his garments.

Laying flat on his back, his head was pushed to the right. _It's not over. Herrick isn't finished._ He shivered again.

It wasn't long before Herrick was greedily drinking him again. John's chest was in agony as his heart fought to keep him alive. He tried to open his eyes, but his lids refused, just like the rest of his being. This frightened him farther, raising his blood pressure and satisfying the monster even more.

The pain was starting to ebb and became distant. John felt his body shutting down and was overwhelmed with despondency. _This is it. I'm leaving..._

His fear, sorrow, shame, and feeling were quickly receding behind a wall of senseless calm. He hopelessly struggled to pull his thoughts into focus.

He didn't care to resist the ominous yet welcoming black trickle in his mind that threatened to take him over.

Just before the soldier lost all conciseness, he felt a cold liquid slip down his throat.

John Mitchell had no idea what that meant.

* * *

 **A/N: Well, I've killed Mitchell now too. I hope liked my take on it and how everyone was written.**

 **Trivia:** **When Aidan Turner (Mitchell's actor) was asked who his best mate was, he responded, "Erm, Dean O'Gorman." So I desired to give John's BF the name of one of Dean's characters, Anders Johnson, for the fun if it. John's middle name is never mentioned, but I felt Rauirí fitting because of Aidan's character in The Clinic. And in Poldark, Ross' comment on war, "A waste of good men" was just perfect for both of his characters.**

 **Song: Mad World by Adam Lambert**

 **Up next: George's last moments being human. (See what I did there? I'm so corny!)**


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